The Rules of Warfare
by AliBlack
Summary: After years of drinking away this remarkable time, Louisa must pull from the depths of her heart the strength to begin anew so that she might see clearly the nature of man, warfare, and - unexpectedly - love. JeanOC CHAPTER 2 EDITED
1. A Wench and a Drunkard

I wrote this because I have a habit of taking overused plots and trying to make them not cliché and a bit more realistic. I hope it works out.

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The Rules of Warfare:

Part I:_ A Wench and a Drunkard _

_Man is born free and he is everywhere in chains._

_-_Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Louisa sat alone at a table in the back, her hand grasping fruitlessly for the cup before her. It had been three years. Three years since the night everything happened. Sometimes it felt like mere days, sometimes decades, but always with a mixture of happiness and grief. Finally, she wrapped her fingers around the mug handle and brought it to her lips.

Looking out at the sea of men, her vision wavered and she slumped further over the table. They were dirty and despicable, just like her, bathing never a priority. Each man was probably not one to be crossed; all could be expected to have a pistol on his person or at the very least, a knife. Louisa gulped down mouthfuls of the rum in her cup, thinking it was never satisfactorily strong. She shoved a hand into her pocket and haphazardly slapped the coins from it on the table before staring at them pointedly. She waved an arm at a passing woman.

"Miss," she croaked, sliding a few of the pieces over the rough table toward her. "Whiskey an' another rum, if you please." The woman nodded as she took the money and left.

Three years, Louisa reflected, and not a damn thing to show for it. Sure she had tried to lie low, worked for a family in Boston for a few months doing the wash and cooking, laced up her stays every morning and played the quiet old maid. Moving on through the colonies she did odd jobs that she could help housewives with, all the while mindful of the glorious novelties around her, but she had soon found that missing her home was more hurtful than she could have before admitted and also that she gained more profit in making bets with dirty men in darkened taverns than cooking for the gentry. Soon the stays loosened and she stopped looking for work with the womenfolk. Louisa made all the coin she needed as she traveled from place to place, dissolving into oblivion and out of society. She decided that she was better off like that anyway.

Here among the familiar roar of laughter and shouting, the poorly-lit rooms, and smell of unwashed bodies and alcohol, Louisa could escape into herself. The door creaked as it opened, not an uncommon thing, and therefore hardly noticed.

"God save King George."

Louisa's head turned toward the voice. Two men stood in the doorway, staring at the tavern's men who had all halted their conversations to stare right back. What fool would come into that particular tavern and announce their despicable affiliation? "Damn dirty Tory." Louisa pushed herself to standing as many of the others did as well, feeling her leg, and grabbing at the knife from her boot. The blood rushed to her head and she fell into the wall next to her, grunting as the wind was knocked out of her. The men scrambled out of the door as everyone came at them.

Giving up her struggle she plopped back down, noting that the others efforts were more than sufficient without her help. The woman who had taken her money had returned with a scowl on her young but prematurely aged face, years of pipe smoke from the men around her probably the cause, and grumbling about the loyalists. She was younger than herself, Louisa could tell. God, she remembered when twenty-seven was still young. Where she was from it was prime. Where she was then you were talked about if you weren't married with many children by then, by twenty-two even.

The tavern men were yanking back the door as she sipped at the whiskey, burning her chest as it went down. They were shouting and brandishing weapons for a very long minute before they suddenly quieted and a rather large man returned with one of the dirty Tories under his arm, laughing in a wide and gap-laden smile. Louisa's grip tightened on the table edge as most returned to their seats and the large man lifted a table right up with his large hands and swung it around to the center of the room, pushing a chair in behind it as he spoke with the surprisingly clean looking Tory. Her drunkenness fueled her anger but also made it fleeting, intense feelings coming and going with regularity.

"Benjamin Martin," said one tall man to his portly friend, both of whom were sitting near to Louisa.

"War hero, Benjamin Martin?"

"The same."

"Loyalist!?" the portly one asked, startled.

"No, of course not," the tall one returned, looking back over his shoulder at this Martin fellow, pointing his thumb at the companion. "Probably just to scare the other one there. I heard him talking; he's French."

"Bastard. What would Martin be doing traveling with him?"

"No idea."

Louisa eyed the two men, who were apparently not Tories after all. This Martin was a man to rival the stories told about him. The infamous Benjamin Martin – war hero, savage fighter, and someone whom Louisa had disliked from the all the tales – did not look like a dangerous man. She would have feared any number of the brazen, grimy men in the tavern before the clean, well-dressed, mannered one who sat in the chair offered to him and calmly smiled at those speaking. Having the same deeply-lined face of the other older men, he still seemed to have aged better, probably in a superior environment. He looked nothing more than a soft spoken gentleman. Louisa knew full well the difference between a soldier and a savage. The paced and kind men who did choose to serve in the army could, of course, soothe their conscience with the knowledge that they fired into a line along with a string of others – a glorious ambiguity to the affair that allowed them to believe that they might have never harmed a man, and that the men falling were from the bullets of the guns around him, and his had just missed any target whatsoever. No, a savage knows what he does full well, and does it as they send body parts of their enemies floating down a river or what-have-you and back to the others. Still Martin did not look a savage, and Louisa had taken into account the ways that men exaggerate these stories.

The Frenchman stood stiffly behind him, rather than sitting, seeming suspicious of Martin's movements. Perhaps he was not a companion of his, she wondered. Friends did not look upon each other in that way. She glanced back down at her drinks. Finishing off the last nip of whiskey and turning the glass over, the woman started on the rum. Of course the men would have contempt for the French. They had just fought a war with them not such a long time ago, but Louisa was unaffected by their loyalties – she knew it was only a matter of time before the French were to join the American's plight. At this point in time, they were the ally. They would band together with the patriots of the American colonies and win this war in a few short years. Of course she knew. Knowing the outcomes of battles and events ahead of time was how she made her living.

Louisa knew she was a disgusting con artist, but it was difficult to have the knowledge and not use it. She had tried to make an honest living at first. It was too late to go back however; no one wanted to hire a drunkard. No, Louisa spent her nights betting inebriated men good money on where the next battle may be, or who might win, or who might be killed or injured. Moving around was necessary to ensure no one grew suspicious of her unfounded 'guesswork.' Half of her revulsion with herself is that she knew that she made profit off of the countries pain and casualties.

It had begun so innocently. The sorrow of losing home had oft been masked by the wonderment of the world around her, and relief as Louisa lived a simpler life, unmarred by the cynicism she had grown up with. War had also marked the time she had spent in her true life, but a war she felt was groundless. Here, her respect for soldiers had grown exponentially as the backdrop of one of histories most colorful times had shown her men who fought for something so noble and just that war seemed near poetic to her ears. Boston in the beginning was a flourishing example of the times and she had set out for there soon after coming to terms with her arrival, eager to see the full force of the burgeoning revolution that she was hearing so much about. The full beauty and the full horror had hit her as she lived and worked there, compelling Louisa to move onward, sobered in her admiration for the cause.

She found her joy in the simplified times and was able to forget her disgust for the decadence her homeland had come to. These people, these glorious patriots, knew the true meaning and application of freedom. They understood the gravity of going to war and they did not make the decision lightly. She smiled as she remembered how her peers lived in a world where important choices were made on a whim and carried out in less than a fortnight, but where she had relocated things took time, often many months or years, they exhausted all other options first, and put diplomacy before all others. No society had become that where the first thought is to beat a problem into submission, most often to mediocre results that left resurgent problems for the next generation. Where had all the enlightened thinkers gone? Perhaps, she had always thought, they, too, had been exhausted over time.

As Louisa continued to sip her drink, vision becoming even more noticeably impaired, she watched the Martin man stand, placing papers on the table, ink and a quill beside it, and look up at the crowd.

"Any man," he said in a voice remarkably powerful for his appearance. The men of the tavern quieted and turned toward him. "That should choose to do so, may sign his name here and serve in South Carolina's militia. My name is Colonel Benjamin Martin, if…" He looked at the men who gave him ragged dirty smiles nearby. "…you do not already know me, and I will be the commanding officer."

A few men whooped and shouted huzzah's as they hopped up from tables, others shouted but did not rise, and some men just quietly rose from their seats and, altogether, formed a line. Each stooped to have a short word with Colonel Martin before scrawling a name down on the sheet of paper. Militia, Louisa raised her eyebrows at the thought. Well they had come to the right place. Any tavern in the colony could provide the most radically revolutionary men for a body of war, assuming of course, that you were not concerned with having any kind of quota in morally upstanding citizens. Those men would fight the King as fiercely as any army could, but the rigor and structure that the Continental Army exhibited was not the organization they would have found themselves in. That was for the young sons and their officers.

Louisa eyed each one of them as they filed up to the table, envying their contribution. All she had done was drain others of coin and drink, living a migratory life with no true destination. Hadn't she in her old life admired the dedication of great men? Hadn't she when she arrived here been enraptured by the deep reality of the affair? Hadn't she known for years that the times she had found were some of the most beautiful and terrible of existence? And hadn't she, for all the wonderment and reverence she had paid to one of the most pivotal points in history and all the thought put into why she was there, spat in the face of a God given endowment?

No, she could no longer live this existence she decided, her drunkenness making this a most urgent issue that must be solved at that very moment through whatever drastic measures she might have to take. In a time that she had always greatly respected for all its facets she could not in good conscience keep, in essence, stealing money and drinking her life away. She must, Louisa decided, fight for her country.

Louisa slammed down her mug on the table and pushed herself to standing once more, pausing to steady herself this time before she took a lurching step away from the table. Seven more and she found herself at the back of the line, some men eyeing her with mild curiosity. She expected they would be wondering why that young man at the back of the line looked so feminine, then again with her badly tailored clothing, hat shadowing her face and the dim lighting, most didn't notice the difference. That fact had come to her mind over the years and had or had not bothered her, depending on how drunk she was; the fact that she could easily be mistaken for a man with her hair pulled back like was the style and being in taverns one was not searching for a woman in man's clothing to begin with. It had entered her mind once or twice that she was not attractive, though the sharp barbs of dissatisfaction were worn away with time. She was an unimportant being, hardly washed and not done up in the way she used to. Gone was the make up, the flattering clothing, the attractive expressions young women train themselves to make in the mirror from an early age. Perhaps she had been passably good-looking when she used to make an effort, but here she was an old con artist who drank too much; no one would care too much anyway.

A large black man timidly followed a small white one away from the line, she noted, after signing Martin's paper. His eyes were bright, but down turned. He must have been a slave. Louisa felt an anger blossom in her stomach at this arcane – well, not for the time – and terrible practice, but she said nothing, knowing that it was part of the times. But Martin had asked him to sign, the slave himself, asked to make his mark of his own free will. Would a brute that the legends made him out to be truly ask a slave if it was his will to fight?

Before she knew it, Louisa was the next in line and she began to step forward toward the table as the last man left. She felt an odd weightlessness in her stomach as her eyes met Colonel Martin's, a feeling oft felt when she met anyone she knew to be of consequence. It was the same as when she held an honest-to-God original copy of Thomas Paine's _Common Sense_ and one warm July day when she had seen Benjamin Franklin in a Philadelphia square two years before. But this time there was an uncertainty to the affair. For a flicker of a moment, Louisa felt the concern about serving under this colonel whom she had heard about in stories to be a savage man. She had not the time to fret over it, however, for she was standing before him then and had to make a move.

She tripped abruptly as she came forward, catching herself on the shoddy little table that wobbled frighteningly under her weight, but she laughed in spite of that danger. "'m here to enlist."

"Yes?" the man before her muttered as he raised an eyebrow to her.

"Absolu'ly," she cleared her throat, straightening up to her full height. "Absolutely."

Colonel Martin looked up at her with an appraising expression. "Can you shoot?"

"Pretty well, I'd say."

"But the better question," came another deep male voice from near him, a hanger-on that stood watching the procession with a drink in his hand and a cocky smile on his face. "Is can you stand?"

Others watched, amused, as she drifted side to side dangerously and lifted a fist to the on-looker. "Mind yourself, you old cur."

"You're a drunken fool," the colonel said, capturing her attention once again and then motioned for her to step aside. "If you will."

"I may be drunk, sir," she told him swaying slightly. "But at least I am not drunk." Sensing there was something wrong with her words, but not being able to discern the problem exactly, she screwed up her eyebrows for just a moment. A few men around her laughed openly.

"Just go sit down," the dark-haired man said shaking his head, not able to hide his mild amusement.

"No." Louisa slammed her palm down on the table. "I want to sign up. I know full well what I'm doing."

"Listen, sir-"

"Ma'am," Louisa said and the Martin's eyebrow arched. "I'm a ma'am… er… woman." He looked her up and down, truly assessing the form before him, noticing the nearly concealed but most-certainly-there breasts and wide hips. She took off her hat and gave a little bow, allowing the dim light of the tavern to hit her face right, enough to see its softness.

"My Lord…"

"You've got that right." Louisa began to laugh, for what reason she knew not, placing the hat back crookedly atop her head. She failed to grasp that she should have been offended that she had again and inadvertently passed for a man. It must have been the unexpected nature of it, or the loose clothing and shadowed face, the gravely voice.

"Then you may most definitely not join us," he said after rubbing a hand down his face to collect himself.

Louisa stopped her sniggering and her eyebrows knitted together. "You disrespect me, sir."

The colonel shook his head. "Women are not meant to fight." He twirled the quill between his fingers and looked down at the papers. "It is not my decision but a fact of this, our lives."

Louisa kept her eyes trained on his face for a moment before standing back up straight. "Then God pity you and these men you make company with." She shot a glance at the Frenchman standing next to him and the hanger-on before she turned, deciding that to not fall down would look better than her drunken stumbles. As she found the table in the back where she had left her drink, Louisa sat heavily, crossing her arms before herself. Had she actually expected them to let her? No, but the drink makes a person do things they normally would not attempt; that she knew all to well.

She grabbed the mug of rum and brought it to her lips but paused, looking down at the contents and even in her inebriated state becoming disgusted with herself. She was a woman. Merely a woman, and nothing could change how things worked. She was reminded quite often that all the opportunities she had once had went out the window where she was now; all because of that simple fact.

She slammed the cup down, the rum sloshing out onto the table. No one would care. The whole place already reeked of stench and alcohol. She suddenly became quite aware of the magnitude of her existence, not just of the way she lived but also that she was woman along with all that it entails. Spending each night drunk in the tavern like some common whore. At least she had not sunken herself to that particular level.

The grizzled little white man was puffing on a pipe a little way off from where she sat, slave standing behind, and she vaguely noticed that he was looking at her. She raised an eyebrow at him in question before he slowly made his way over. Sitting down opposite her at the little table he shook his head.

His small eyes squinted at her. "What's your story?"

Louisa tipped her head. "I don't have one," she said after a moment.

The old man leaned back in the chair, pulling the pipe away from his lips and putting it back. "Fair enough."

She stared at him, her vision focusing and blurring as she did so, even with concentration. "Yeah?"

"Do you know who you've spoken to, woman?" He tipped his head toward the colonel at the table. "You have any idea?"

Through the fog of her drunkenness, Louisa once again pulled together what she had heard, sources varying, collected over the years. "Benjamin Martin. He served in the war years ago."

The old man leaned toward her. "You hear the stories?"

Louisa looked back at Martin, the man jovially speaking with other men from the tavern, an eerie sight indeed as she thought of what he was credited with. "Killed a bunch of the French, yeah? Brutal, I heard, just not exactly what." She didn't want to repeat it, not keen on cementing the story by expressing it aloud.

"Yeah?" the old man, pulled the pipe from his lips, wisps of smoke curling out from behind his decaying teeth. He looked her up and down. "Isn't no story a woman should be hearing an'way."

"I'll bet," she whispered.

"And more so not an'thing a woman should be getting involved with," he continued. "Woman like you shouldn't be in a place like this. She should be back in her husb'nd's home with chil'ren, yeah?"

"Suppose she should," Louisa said, eyes wondering to his slave who was just staring at the rough table. Such a strange sight to see a hulking man like him following the smaller one with such unquestioning obedience, such a sad sight. She looked back at the old man, anger coursing through her but she just shook her head. "Might I ask why you care so much?"

He laughed but it came out like more of a wheeze. "Jus' wondering how mad a woman mus' be to try and enlist in the militia." He continued to laugh until it turned into a long hacking cough. Once he quieted the man shook his head and turned to his slave, standing up. "Boy, you stay righ' here and don't you move. I'm going outside for a piss."

Louisa looked up at the man until his master had left the building, trying to catch his eye to no avail. "What is your name?" she asked.

The slave's eyes looked up at her, startled, before he cast them back down. "Occam."

"I'm Louisa."

He nodded. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"The same here." She smiled but he wasn't looking up. Jumping straight to what she wanted, she asked, "Do you know where the militia is meeting?"

Occam finally looked up at her before his eyes darted to the door and back, watchful for his master. "Miss wants to go?"

"I would 'ppreciate it."

"I'm supposed to be going to Snow's Island, in the swamps."

"Thank you Occam." Louisa looked up at him with a gentle smile, glad he finally held her gaze. "You have very kind eyes." A trace of a smile was upon his face by the time his master has returned calling for him to return to the spot in the tavern they had previously occupied.

Louisa stretched her arms as she got up, still wobbling. If she stopped her drinking she should be fine to ride in a few hours. A rare moment of happiness crossed her mind as she thought that there would be no deaths from drunken drivers that night and not for quite a number of years. Carefully crossing to the bar, she perched herself on a high stool and the barkeep wandered over.

"In the name of God, please tell me you have tea or coffee."

"Mmhm,' he grunted. "It tastes like horse piss, but if that's what you want…"

"As long as there's no alcohol in it, I don't care." Louisa rubbed her hand over her face vigorously, trying to get full control over herself. "Wait!" she grabbed the barkeep's sleeve as he turned away. "Make it just the hot water."

His eyes grew wide. "Hey, are you sure about that?"

"Yeah, I can pay you the same if that's what you want, just get me hot water."

"Alright, I won't stop you but you are going to be ill. You should know that water's dangerous to drink."

"Don't you think I know what I'm doing?" Louisa snapped and the barkeep put up his hands in surrender and went to fetch her water. She glanced over at the colonel again. They should be there for quite awhile, she thought, before they left and after that it was a long ride along the Santee. She would be sober by then, provided with a terrible headache, but sober. They wouldn't be all too difficult to follow. Louisa eyed all the men, Martin, the hanger-on, the Frenchman, all those that enlisted. Yes, she could wait.

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Hope you like so far. It really helps if I can get opinions so, therefore, I ask that you leave a review not because I just want them, but I also ask that they help me out a bit, yeah? What's working, what's not working, hopes, gripes, questions, yeah? Thanks for your time. Lots of love. 


	2. A Use of Life

_Better, definitely much better. I'm pretty ecstatic over this rewrite. Even if it's not perfect, it's defiantly an improvement on the last version. Let's see…,__ This one is to **Mona Lisa23**especially for her amazing amount of help with the rewrite and helping with my timeline (I have the movie now – finally! – so I see how right you were; I cannot believe how inaccurate my memories of the details had been, so thanks a bunch). Of course to__** bubblymuggle** and **GreenWood Elf**, and a special thank you to Rachmaninov for his Prelude in C Sharp Minor, which just rocks in a 19th century kind of way._

_Let's see what you guys think (barring Rachmaninov because I don't think he's reading /cough/ is dead /cough/)._

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The Rules of Warfare:

Part II:_ A Use of Life _

_What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value._  
- Thomas Paine

Shutting the door behind her and securing her pack, Louisa made her way down the path to the livery. It was around midnight, she guessed, looking up at the bright waxing moon. It was the same moon that she looked upon in her old life, something beautiful that she rarely noticed anymore; something you could look up at, take in its luminescence and the vast dotting of stars across the night sky and for a moment forget where you are, where you've been, and what you must do, and just look up and exist because that sight never changes.

Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps you could tell where you were. The sky was not a washed-out blue-black like laundry long since faded with three or four of the brightest stars shining through like dull lint clinging to it, and the moon painted yellow with pollution. It was pure and undiluted of its beauty. It was the blackest black you could imagine, were it not for the shimmering specks all across, your eyes would begin to unfocus in confusion over whether or not you were blind, and the moon a silver magnificence that Louisa cursed herself for not paying her respects to it every night. Somehow man was able to take a nature that had existed for millennia, and a natural born right of the people to look upon its glory, and corrupted it in less than a century.

She walked purposefully to the livery, digging coins out of her bag, the ones in her pocket nearly exhausted. She pushed past other belongings as the heavy metals sunk to the bottom of the sack. Coinage was plentiful as she dug her fingers into it and Louisa was thankful that she had not squandered it all. Placing the requested amount into the night stablehand's palm for her steed's board, she walked down the row of horses slowly, trying to remember which one exactly was hers or where she left him. She had begun drinking before she made it to the tavern.

"Gatsby," she said - or more asked - to the shadowed animal as she walked to it, careful to avoid the stable's arbitrary horse-leavings. He nudged her arm as she came closer, affirming her guess. "Alright then," she whispered. "Good boy. Sorry I can't let you rest longer." Louisa untied the reins and led him to the edge of the small lean-to that housed more than a dozen other horses, careful as she reached the far end to check for any of the men who had left more than a half-hour previous. She figured they would return to their homes to collect weapons and kiss their families good-bye, and after they were down the road she could follow at a distance without being seen. It would be necessary to make it to the swamps undetected or they would shoo her off again and would not be able to find them. In that case she would have to wait until they returned to their families sometime, and who knows when that might happen.

Sure that nothing moved in the night but the trees in the wind, Louisa lead Gatsby to the path and mounted him, settling herself into the saddle and readying for a long ride. She gave him a nudge and went along at a good trot for a few miles, petting his neck with affection as they went. Looking back, Louisa could have never seen herself on a horse, not being the kind of person that enjoyed pleasure riding, nor had access to the animals in the large city where she lived. The acquisition of Gatsby himself maybe eighteen months before had been one of convenience over affection, seeing the amount of travel she did, the price of carriages or paid transportation would have been much more than buying her own horse. It was weeks before she even came around to naming him, deciding that his quiet friendship that she was beginning to appreciate recalled memories of the great and illustrious character of Fitzgerald's masterpiece, and in memory – or foresight as it were – of a cherished book she had whispered it to him as they rode, to which his ears had perked up. More than a year later, he was the only thing she continued to consider other than herself – possibly even treating the horse better – being the one living thing that seemed to show affection to her or that she knew for more than a few days. He was as constant as the waxing and waning moon, another treasured companion in her solitary life.

Soon Louisa pulled back on the reins, slowing Gatsby to a walk as the sounds of travelers met her ears. Hoof beats from the horses, tough leather of the saddles creaking under weight, a few muffled voices here and there, familiar, she decided. Coming around a bend in the trail, she craned her neck to verify that, yes, these men were the ones from the tavern. The ones most easily seen perhaps fifty yards ahead on the path and taking up the rear, were those who had joined up, and if she strained her eyes through the dark she could just barely make out the three-cornered hat of Benjamin Martin in front of them, she was sure of it. Pulling back, she had Gatsby wait until they had gone a sufficient distance where she could hear them, but not be in risk of being seen and followed at a comfortable pace.

Louisa patted her own hip out of habit before remembering that the small flask in her bag was empty and she would not be reaching for it. She felt strange traveling without sipping at a drink and half of her felt relieved of a burden. The other half wanted to shoot itself.

They rode on into the night as the moon arced over the woods paths they made their way through, along the Santee. Louisa felt a headache lurking, but her lack of sleep might have staved it off for the time being. She absentmindedly stroked Gatsby's mane as they walked and she kept from humming to herself in the quiet. The unspoiled wilderness around her inspired thoughts of traveling up north, before she had taken to drink and still actually noticed the scenery. Of all the thoughts of how the country had changed there were, though not many to count, beautiful areas still as unchanged. Before she had left New York for the second time, she could not resist visiting the recently embattled Lake George where her brave countrymen had overtaken the British fort. She remembered, in a time where her wonderment had been enough to sustain herself, being moved to tears as she looked over the sparkling lake and lush green mountains where she stood but a few years before and a few hundred years after and saw how she might be lucky enough to know that she could see the same exact sight in her own time, untainted by industrialization. Perhaps the spot on the edge of the lake might have been a bar or a gift shop later on, but the sight at least, the water, the forest, was all still as beautiful. Nature, she had thought, was remarkably timeless. Louisa resolved that she should visit her home state again someday, though the city itself she hailed from did not hold any appeal. Perhaps it was her fault for exuding disdain for the place she lived but being too indolent to leave.

Two or more hours later, she saw the men coming to a stop, as they all slowed their horses and grouped together. Martin was pointing, she noticed as she kept behind a light cover of trees quite a ways off, to a swamp area beside the small clearing. He must have been whispering to the men around him about how they might get in. Louisa watched with interest how they might bring their horses to this island they were heading for before the colonel lead the men into the tree line. Martin looked around into the night and for a moment Louisa thought he had spotted her. His eyes, however, continued across the landscape before he decided to carry on. As she nudged Gatsby forward a few feet she saw the congregation disappearing into the night's swamp mist but not sinking down into the water. A land bridge then. She nodded, leaning forward on her steed and surveying the recruits' progress.

"Now then Gatsby," she whispered. "How do you suppose I approach them?"

It had occurred to her as she rode that wandering straight in might get her shot. But then again, waiting for them to come out might be slowing them down from some military action. She frowned, neither plan seeming a good strategy. Louisa patted Gatsby's shoulder, sorry that she made him do so much work that day. She should decide soon so he might get some rest.

Heading in might work the best, so that they might be tired from the journey and open to conversation. She wondered if they would shoot anyone who approached. As she thought this though, movement on the other side of the clearing caught her eye. Another group of men on horseback approached the swamp, and Louisa hunkered down wondering if this bunch might be a threat to Martin and his men. They moved slowly, though, and seemed to be nothing more than simple townsfolk, however the man at the front was dressed in a soldiers _accoutrement_, a patriot no doubt about it. More men for the militia, perhaps.

Yes, she decided as they too disappeared into the swamps not forty five minutes after the first, it might be safe to enter if they were expecting more to do so. Louisa nudged Gatsby and headed toward the opening soon after all was clear. "You'll rest soon, boy."

The land bridge was narrow but navigable and was covered with shallow water. Gatsby moved slowly and the sounds of sloshing swamp water from his approach were relatively minimal. Soon she could hear the distinct sounds of life echoing though the quiet of the night. Men laughed and spoke, fires crackled, objects were shifted around. Louisa's stomach was turning flip-flops and not all for her impending hangover. Taking a deep breath, she nudged Gatsby on, the men and fires soon visible.

It was an eerie sight, but stunning. The mission's remains jutted out from the isle, grave markers thrust themselves from the murky water all around, and fires cast bleak shadows on the stone, creating ghoulish flickers and light dancing from the water. The swamp water was black in the darkness – obviously for its namesake – only adding to macabre sight. Odd hoots from birds and other animal sounds coupled with the musty scent and heavy air gave the place an atmosphere of oppression – of a place one should not be save for a ghost tale. And still it was alive with movement and men – a ghastly oasis in an archaic burial land.

Through the hollow mission doorway she saw the colonel sitting by the fire and speaking to his men. Men all over looked up at her approach. Gatsby plodded onto the edge of the landmass, where Louisa slid out of her saddle and tied him up next to the other horses. Those from the tavern sat at the edge where she had arrived, all staring up at her as they paused in whatever they had been occupied in. The second group was further up the island, nearer to Martin and the young soldier who had taken up a seat near to him. They were definitely cleaner, she noted, and better dressed.

Before she had made it a few feet from her horse, Louisa felt the cold edge of a blade on her neck.

"What business have you here?" came a voice, stinking breath hot on her neck. The man clutched an arm around her chest to hold her still, and pressed the blade into her skin hard enough to threaten quite serious injury. Louisa avoided taking a deep breath, not wanting to move against the knife. She pressed her eyes shut hard.

"I just – wanted – to – speak with – Colonel Martin," she gasped, clutching a hand to the man's wrist.

"Let her go!" boomed a voice from in front of them. Louisa opened her eyes to see Martin standing in the doorway of the mission's remains, hard lines etched into his forehead emphasized by the firelight. The knife pulled away from her throat and the man that held her let her go with a shove, causing her to stumble forward. Louisa put a hand to her throat where she had felt the blade skim her skin, opening just a small wound. After a few deep inhalations, she stood straight, lifting the collar of her shirt to wipe the bit of blood from her neck. Martin stared at her for a long moment, and she felt small under his gaze. He lifted a hand and called her to him with a flick of his fingers.

Louisa took a glance around her at all the men that were staring before following Colonel Martin through the doorway to the end of the landmass. He stared out at the swamp for a moment before turning back toward her. His annoyance was etched onto his face as he gave her an appraising glance.

"My I begin by asking why?" he said plainly, and as it became her turn to speak, she suddenly felt remarkably self conscious for not only was the Colonel staring at her, but also one of the Tavern men, the Frenchman, and the young soldier who had led the second group into camp.

Clearing her throat, Louisa began, "I come to you, sir – Colonel – sober in all of its senses, and I ask again to join your militia."

He rolled his eyes up at the canopy of the trees before settling his gaze, once again, upon her. "You persist," he said, a hint of irritation in his voice, but it was hidden well.

"Yes, sir," she said. "Do I make clear my measure of resolve?"

"Very," he near-spat. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Martin then glanced apprehensively at the three men near them before stepping closer to the woman before him. He lowered his voice before continuing. "Ma'am, aside from the fact that women should not be fighting in a war – and I in no way mean to question your honor – I wish to remind you that men will talk. We cannot allow for…" His eyes searched the area to keep from meeting hers. "…this is a war, not a tavern, Miss, if you understand me."

Louisa nodded. "I am not a whore, Mr. Martin, if that is what you mean to warn against, whilst there is no offense taken." The Frenchman coughed and the young soldier seemed to shift his weight from one foot to the other uneasily.

Martin ran a hand across the stubble on his jaw, startled at her choice of words. "Of course, Miss, but -"

"Headrow."

"Excuse me?"

"Miss Headrow. Louisa."

He nodded. "Miss Headrow, I do not wish for the man of this camp to dishonor you, be it through insinuation, proposition, or force."

"I understand, sir."

"And aside from that, you have already breeched our confidence by following us here tonight. Miss Headrow," he said, scrutinizing her. "How are we to know you are not on the side of the British?"

"I assure you Colonel, I am the most ardent patriot you might come to find." He raised an eyebrow, which made Louisa unable to decide if he were serious about his accusation or if he were just presenting scenarios. "I have much stock in the success of this war. Quite an extraordinary amount. I just want to aid you."

"'Just'?," Martin repeated. "So you 'just' track my men and I into the Black Swamp to aid us?"

Louisa furled her brow in thought. "I understand your concern, sir, but…" She sighed. "Sorry, might I explain myself more fully?"

"Of course," Martin told her, gesturing with his hand to go on and an expression that made Louisa wonder if he were thinking something along the lines of, 'You've already barged into our camp; you might as well…'

She picked at dirt under her fingernails, voice softening to a thoughtful murmur. "I am, sir, deeply ashamed of my actions this night. I realize it is not the proper behavior of a woman, but I have been down a long road of mistakes in my life. That however does not excuse me, and for that I beg your forgiveness. I am not myself when I am drinking."

His eyes softened. "Forgiven on that account, ma'am."

"I wish to right my wrongs, Mr. Martin. I mean to say I hope that aiding this burgeoning nation to achieve freedom will make up for the years I have spent floating about without purpose, making a fool out of myself and shaming our creator in my apathy."

"There are other paths to take, Miss," he said, taking a glance at his companions as he spoke. "You might find a physician to aid, cook in a regiment camp, things in the real army that would get a woman like yourself a place to stay and rations, neither of which are guaranteed to be proper here."

"I have managed." Louisa gave a soft shrug and cast her eyes across the swamp and back to him. "And where but the militia have I even a chance of shooting some of them lobsterbacks? I could dress as a man and enlist, sir, and I would bet my life I would not be the first, but somehow the thought of standing in line waiting to be shot does not appeal to me."

Martin paused, the thought seeming to resonate with him. Louisa noted the way he tensed at the notion. "Nor to me."

"I have long been past any respectable position in society, Colonel," she said slowly very aware of the others standing in watch. "I'm sure every man you have in that encampment has, at some point in his life, felt out of place or outstepped the bounds of righteousness. I have heard the stories." She eyed him decidedly as his gaze shot up at her. "But I do not believe you are what they say. I ask that you might not judge me by my gender as I do not judge you by the stories they tell."

Martin ran a hand over his face, lost in thought for a moment. "Why must you be so persistent?"

She shrugged. "Nothing can dissuade a woman with her mind set upon something." Martin glanced over at the men around the fire. The Frenchman and the man from the tavern both nodded knowingly at her words, while the young soldier merely stared back. Louisa found this comical – it was obvious who was married and who was not.

Martin's voice sounded, muffled, from behind his cupped hand. "Lord, give me strength to dissuade a woman, your most stubborn of creations."

Louisa smiled softly, confident in that his anger seemed to be ebbing. "Colonel Martin, I came to you to fight. You may not allow me to sign my name, but I will stand alongside men with the same bravery. Allow me to stay."

"Believe me; I cannot under good conscience –"

"Not under your conscience, sir; under mine. A woman may choose her destiny as well as any man. I have not a husband, nor child, nor a father to mourn me if it comes to that." Louisa shifting her weight from foot to foot, beginning to realize that she could not convince a man of that time she was capable.

Martin breathed deeply, taking a long time to answer and speaking slowly when he did. "My answer is still no, Miss. You must believe me."

Louisa sighed, tipping her head back to look up at the sky before she had an idea. Looking back down at the colonel, she nodded. "And now what of me, sir? I am afeared – what if I might fall under British possession? Wouldn't I be in some kind of danger with this knowledge I now have?" She folded her hands in front of herself. As Martin's appraising gaze looked her over, he seemed to consider this notion. She continued, "I'll cook for your men, sir. Sew, clean, mend; whatever you wish me to. All I ask is you let me keep my musket and allow me to fire under attack."

"Father…" the young soldier said suddenly, eliciting the colonel's attention. Louisa raised an eyebrow at him for a moment, grasping the relationship between the two. He stared at his father, obviously affected by her pleas. Martin looked back at her for a moment, seeming to be swayed by his son's opinion.

"I only wish to help," she told the officer quietly.

Martin sat slowly on a log near the fire, thinking deeply for a moment. "Alright, you stay." He paused for a moment. "You can keep the musket. We shall see about shooting."

"Thank you," she said as genuinely as she could. "I haven't had a cause in so very long."

"You're welcome, Miss Headrow," he returned unsmiling. "Don't make me regret this."

She took a step back, looking at the men, wondering if she should acknowledge them in some way, since they had so obviously been privy to the entire conversation. Colonel Martin looked up at her as she faltered, realizing her hesitation.

"This," he said, gesturing up at the Frenchman from his seat by the fire. "Is Major Jean Villeneuve – you will answer to him as well as myself – and my son Gabriel, a Corporal." Louisa nodded at each of them. He did not address the last man, but Louisa met his gaze for a moment as well. She smiled briefly, before retreating to the other end of the isle, tending to her belongings on Gatsby. She removed a bedroll and found herself a suitable location away from the other men, at least relative to the size of the landmass. The men from the tavern in effect ignored her this time, while the townsmen eyed her wearily, all realizing that she would be staying.

For a moment she met the eyes of a man whom she then recognized as one who had accosted her with the knife. He showed no emotion toward her, obviously satisfied in the fact that Martin had allowed her to stay. She tipped her head to him and he to her, an unspoken agreement between them that the threat on her life had been nothing personal. She had been in enough taverns to understand the way those type of men thought. Over the months, she realized, she had begun to think the same.

She returned to her horse to relieve him of more weight, thinking it would be a long road to absolution.

Louisa smiled softly at Gatsby as she felt her heart lifting. Her life was once again heading in some kind of direction. She patted his neck, feeling the distinct and long forgotten sense that life was not a day to day imbuement, but an actual journey where each day brought her closer to something – where each day meant something. Imagine, she thought, if she ever returned home she might say that she helped to establish her country. What could be a better use of life than that?

* * *

_Once again, thank you's all around. I had so much trouble trying to decide between__**Mona Lisa23**__'s idea and __**GreenWood Elf**__'s since they kind of contradicted each other's – I loved them both! I hope I did better this time around. _


	3. A Price to Pay

Finally, chapter three. Thanks everyone for patience and support.

**PLEASE REMEMBER: **I rewrote Chapter Two, so if you've only read the first version, you might want to go back and check out the improvements.

And I still think there is better stuff ahead. All this background to get to the good stuff...

* * *

The Rules of Warfare:

Part III:_ A Price to Pay _

_An aching head and trembling limbs, which are the inevitable effects of drinking, disincline the hands from work._

- George Washington

Louisa groaned as a hand tentatively nudged her upper arm. Opening her eyes, she was met with a dark, unsmiling face.

"Miss," a deep voice whispered. "The men are moving out in a short time."

"Thank you." She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, smiling at the slave as she rose. The headache was dull but oppressive, the random rays of sunlight bursting through the treetops an unwelcome greeting. A sense of foreboding settled on the back of her neck, leaving her with the thought that she was not going to be well when the day was out. It would not be a surprise.

"What is it to be?" she asked, yawning.

"They say drills."

Louisa looked up at Occam for a moment. "I'm not to go then?" He shrugged. "Alright," she said, picking herself off the ground and stretching. She was glad, at least, that one person was not too pretentious to befriend her, though he still had not called her by anything but 'miss.'

She collected her bedroll, watching others readying themselves as she fastened it to Gatsby. Tavern men stayed down by the end of the island, fraternizing amongst themselves, townsmen the same in the middle, and Martin and the officers through the mission door. Louisa took her coat from where she had left it on the ground and slipped it on, leaving the buttons undone, before crossing the isle to speak with her commanding officer.

"Excuse me, sir," she said from the doorway. "I'm told the men are to go through drills today. I am under the assumption that I should not be attending."

"That's right," he said in return. Martin was collecting various belongings and adding them to the packs he had slung over his shoulders. After a moment he looked up at her. "You said you had a musket, Miss Headrow. Have you ever fired it?"

Louisa blinked a few times, perturbed by his question. "Yes, sir."

"And did you hit anything?"

"I may not have a lifetime of experience like the rest of your men, but I am capable enough. I have been successful in shooting myself an adequate food supply when I was unable to buy it in a town." She crossed her arms in front of herself and leaned on the mission wall. "I daresay a man is a bit larger and a bit slower than a pheasant."

The tavern man who had sat in on their conversation the previous night laughed as he sat by the dwindling fire, in the same spot he had been in before. "Probably not as flavorful too."

Louisa smiled at his comment. Martin nodded in acknowledgement but hardly smirked as he thought. "Another time, perhaps, Miss Headrow."

"Yes, sir," she said without argument. Louisa had turned back to leave, but spun on her heel, a finger over her lips thoughtfully. "Might there be a stream nearby, sir? Something that's not swamp water?"

"There's one not far north of here," he said. "I suppose you might come along with us and I'll point the way."

"Thank you, Colonel."

Louisa busied herself with further securing Gatsby's burden as she took glances at the men around. One was preparing coffee nearby and random whiffs of meat cooked over fires began to entrance her, making her stomach rumble for nourishment. She moved sluggishly over to one of the fires, and sat on an unoccupied log.

"Can I get a cup of that?" she asked quietly, gesturing to the coffee and expecting to be turned down. The man gave her the once over, but, to her surprise, poured a portion into a tin mug and held it out to her. She grasped the cup and brought it up to her lips, carefully sipping at the hot liquid. It was thick and strong, disgusting by her home time's standards, but a welcome imbuement. "Thank you."

The man grunted in response.

"Name's Louisa Headrow," she said, reaching out a hand which he eyed wearily for a moment. He brushed his own off on his pant leg and grasped it.

"Curly." He went back to his tasks for a bit while Louisa sipped at her coffee. She took glances up at the man across the fire, opposite her who picked at his fingernails with a blade – the blade he had held to Louisa's throat the night before. "This is Rollins," Curly said eventually, motioning to him. Rollins looked between the two and nodded.

"Come for a fight, then?" Rollins asked. "Them British, I mean."

Louisa nodded.

"Can't blame you," he continued. "Might as well get a few shots in if you can."

Louisa nodded and then handed the mug back to Curly as she stood. "Thank you, again."

"Good to meet you," she said, nodding at Rollins. He inclined his head but said no more.

As they rode out of the swamp and back into the meadow, Louisa concentrated on feelings she had long forgotten. Her hips moving in rhythm with the saddle, the warm sunlight on her eyelids, and the cool sting of early morning crispness in her lungs, all welcome after what felt like years without. Things she had never thought twice about before this time were suddenly beautiful.

She drew in a deep breath of clean air, marveling at the crispness of her vision. Sobriety was an anomaly, especially that early in the morning. Hell, consciousness was an anomaly that early. The cloak with which rum had hidden simple things had been lifted. Between drunken nights and hungover days, she hadn't seen more than ten feet in front of her clearly in months.

The trees were clearly defined, leaves rustling individually instead of one large splash of color. The tall meadow greenery swayed in the wind, and she could pick out random stalks of golden, sundried grass. Louisa smiled at how easily she could see the difference.

But still, in the back of her skull, an ache was nagging, telling her it was coming for her later.

Colonel Martin pulled back to ride next to her, pulling the woman out of her thoughts. "We are going to head up this path here. It'll take a bend to the left and come to a long field, behind a few feet of trees. Easy to see if you're looking for it. Do you mark me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your stream, miss, is going to be nearby so if you need anything we'll be close." He held out his hand and pointed ahead. "Continue straight down until that bend and go straight into the woods. Do not turn once you've left the path. You'll see the stream soon."

"Thank you. I won't be long."

He nodded. "Return to camp afterward. My son stayed back to organize rations. You said you would work to stay. I left my instructions with him."

When Louisa found the small brook, she tied Gatsby a bit downstream and sat on a large flat rock to remove her boots. Somewhere far off, she heard a mass of musketfire, surely the men gaining practice. Her feet were sweaty and collected dirt, but it felt liberating to stand barefoot on the rough earth.

When she next reached into her pack, her hand brushed a cold metal object. She pulled her hand back for a moment, then extracted her empty flask. Turning it over in her hands, she studied the carved lines and small dents long the edges. A cursive LFH was engraved in the bottom right corner. It had contained nothing but alcohol in the past year, corrupted from its original purpose, carrying water when she was a housemaid to keep her from having to drink ale like everyone else. She used to tie it to her thigh, under her petticoats, and take it out for a sip when no one was looking.

She set it on the rock and continued to rummage through her pack. She pulled out a chunk of soap and a rag, set them next to her flask, and began to undress. The last thing she removed was a long strip of linen that was wound tight around her chest, binding her breasts.

Although the stream was cold, Louisa trudged in and began to scrub away weeks of sweat, spilled alcohol, and dirt.

As she rode Gatsby back to the Spanish mission, she took a sip of the stream water collected in her flask, eager to flush out her body's toxins. Corporal Martin was pulling a needle and thread through a ragged flag as she tied up Gatsby. He tried to stuff it behind himself when she came through the mission door.

"It looks like you're better than me at that, sir."

"Sewing?" His cheeks heated subtly. "I was just… I had to learn after my mother passed on."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She came closer and sat across the smoldering fire from him. "I never really learned. My mother didn't care for it and I was only just recently showed how, but only enough for clothing. I can't embroider at all."

He pulled the flag back into his lap. "I found it on the ground at a camp. Hate to let it go to waste."

Louisa smiled. "Your father said you would have instructions for me."

The Corporal stood to retrieve an armful of clothing and blankets that were in need of mending. He gave her a needle and a spool of thread. "I'm sure the men will be pleased that they don't have to sew for themselves," he said conversationally.

"I'm sure they will," Louisa answered.

For awhile they sat in silence, only the animal sounds and crackling of the fire around them.

"Why are you here?" the young man asked suddenly.

Louisa shrugged. "Tired of being a drunkard, I suppose."

He eyed her quizzically for a moment.

"Oh, yes, you missed my first impression on your father. I was not at my best." She nodded. "Corporal, I –"

"Gabriel."

"Sir… Gabriel, you seem to me a man that has a deep understanding of this patriotism and a very potent moment in history – a passion for the cause. Why can't a woman have the same feelings?"

He thought for a moment, a smile twitching at his lips. "I can understand that."

"I don't need to be accepted, I just enjoy the company, and the experience."

He nodded. "Miss Headrow, I know my father can be quite… difficult at times."

"I don't blame him," she said. "Not many men at all would trust a woman to fend for herself. It means very much to me that he would care enough about a stranger's wellbeing to try and turn me away."

Gabriel shrugged.

"But thank you for your help in convincing him to let me stay."

"You're welcome."

The militia returned that afternoon, tired and hungry. Louisa had been able to choke down a small bit of food that had been offered to her by the corporal. Her stomach was beginning to become volatile. By night, she had almost finished the whole pile of clothing.

The men sat around the fire, all at some point looking up to eye the woman that sat nearby, struggling with a needle and thread on a patched and worn jacket.

"You'd think her mother would've taught her at some point," one of them said at the way she fought with her needlework.

"Women of ill-repute don't need any other trade," another returned.

"She's not of ill-repute," one of the tavern's men said in return.

"How do you know?"

"Tavern wenches don't dress in men's clothing. They wear dresses and paint up their faces."

"You _would_ know."

Louisa glanced up at them as she worked, not perturbed by their comments, merely observing as if she had nothing to do with the conversation. She hadn't done needle work in nearly two years, and never to the standards of an average woman of the time. It would have been easier, she decided, if her hands hadn't been shaking so badly.

By the time she finished, sweat dripped down from her brow and her stomach had tied itself up into knots. A jittery feeling was building in her and she yearned to ask one of the nearby men for a nip of whisky to dull the budding pain. She draped the jacket over the log next to Martin, nodded at him, and went to lie down on her bedroll. Her face, she could feel, had paled, and the only thing she could do was pray for some kind of relief.

Nearly a fortnight passed in similar fashion while the men became better at their drills and Louisa became worse at holding her food.

It was late in August when Colonel Martin let her have a day free from her duties after he saw how sick she was becoming, allowing her to rest for most of the day. She could hardly get a minute of sleep, tossing fitfully back and forth through the night and day. By nightfall she was able to get up for the smallest bit of food and a sip from her recently refilled flask of water. The men eyed her, illness eliciting more resentment than pity among the majority.

Louisa shook as she sat on the log by the fire, heavy-lidded eyes dark with lack of sleep and skin sallow in sickness. She kept her back straight, however, and fought to keep the dignity that she had left. Suddenly she stood and walked determinately away from the gatherings, making it to a secluded spot behind the horses and some trees before she emptied her stomach. Feeling as if she weren't finished, Louisa sank to the ground and waited. Her inebriated self-appraisal had been spot on; she was a drunk if there ever was one, what she would have effectively called an alcoholic. How she ever let it get to that point was a blur, literally.

Three long years since she had watched television, read a book by a real electric lamp, used an honest-to-God toilet, and for all the things she missed, none had borne a greater pain than losing a static life; a life in which she did not have to play the ambiguous woman, drifting from place to place a nameless, lost fool. The drink had dulled the pain every once in a while, then once or twice a week, and soon every single day. And, unsurprisingly, Louisa found that the ale had never rid her of it, only added to her self-disgust and soon she stopped thinking about it altogether.

It was a wonder she set down the last drink that night in the tavern. How badly she wanted a drink, if only to make the feeling go away. She wanted to curl into a ball and cry – she wanted to scream – she wanted respite from this horrible, edgy nausea and splitting headache. She wanted a drink just to stop it, but she did not want to begin this cycle anew. She had washed herself of this, and she would stay clean of it.

Louisa shuddered with the thought of what she had allowed herself to become and vowed to never have a drink again in her life. She braced herself again as the sickness overcame her, and emptied her stomach once more.

"Are you alright?" An accented voice said from behind her as she finished. She might have snapped 'obviously not' but was finding that things she used to say while drinking were not the things she actually wished to utter. She wanted to yell – yell at anyone, but the sober part of her restrained her speech. The voice had been ambiguous, she noted, neither overtly kind nor harsh, but to snap was to risk a false judgment.

Louisa wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and turned to the man behind her. "Major Villeneuve," she nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, sir, as good as can be expected."

His eyes moved back to the camp and to her again. He did not turn his head or change his impassive expression as they did and simply continued, "The men are talking."

She looked up at him, waiting for more but when it did not come she nodded. "I suppose they would."

"They are saying that you are with child."

Louisa ran a hand over her face, massaging her throbbing temples as she went. "Let them think what they want."

"I do not think it is proper to speak of a woman – any woman – in this way openly as they do." His expressionless gaze did not give way, even as Louisa's brow rose in surprise at his admission. There was a very subtle sympathy in it, she thought, the fact that he might bother to express his disapproval at all the most influential.

She nodded again. "I am sick; I am very sick," she admitted, not meeting his gaze, the stone-faced stare becoming too much for her at once, and whispered her next, "I drink too much. Too much for too long, and my body is now punishing me for it. I will be fine in a week or two, I am sure."

"It is my hope that you will be." He turned to go but Louisa stopped him.

"_Merci beaucoup, Monsieur_ _Villeneuve_," she said. "For telling me what they say."

The Frenchman looked back over his shoulder, brow suddenly softened and he nodded, "_Avec plaisir, Mademoiselle_."

Louisa let her head fall back against the tree she was leaning upon. Sobriety certainly brought more kindness than was given to the drunken fool.

* * *

NB: With all the French I have written so far (I have bits and pieces from future chapters) I try to put it in a context where the meaning is discernable, but I will still provide translations for ease/reference.

French Note: _Avec plaisir _(trans. '_you are welcome_' or literally, '_with pleasure_')


End file.
